


howl for your heart

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - TV Stars, Background Relationships, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Derek Has a Crush on Stiles, Derek Has a Pack, Implied Mates, Kira Babbles, Kira is a Hunter, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Publicist Lydia Martin, Scott Falls in Love Easily, Scott Gets Bitten, Stiles Uses A Baseball Bat, Stiles dances, TV Star Stiles Stilinski, Teen Wolf Reverse Bang, Wolf Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is the star of <i>High School Werewolf</i>, playing an alpha werewolf on one of the top ten rated TV shows for teens and adults. When his Maserati breaks down, stranding him and his best friend and bodyguard in the middle of nowhere, he finds out that the supernatural might not be as made up as he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	howl for your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art for Howl for your heart by tryslora](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4414943) by [Galadriel34](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel34/pseuds/Galadriel34). 



> Pretty art and a lovely prompt, and I couldn't resist. Between the prompt, and the way Derek looked so vulnerable in the art (and such a lovely mix of human and wild), and Stiles's _attitude_ , I just had to write this. So many thanks to my absolutely lovely artist [galadriel34](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel34/pseuds/Galadriel34); I couldn't have done this without you, hon. Also thanks to Kiss and Eidheann for keeping me on track and helping me create a 15k rollercoaster ride rather than the 50k+ monster that this wanted to be (and I wouldn't have finished on time!). I had an absolute BLAST with this and am incredibly excited that I get to share it. As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, but I have so much fun writing about them.

[](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4414943)

* * *

“You’re going out to a bar.” Lydia voice is sharp, tinny from the small speaker on Stiles’s phone. “You are in the middle of _nowhere_ and you have _no car_ and you are going out to a _bar_. Stiles Stilinski, are you mad? Are you _trying_ to make Scott’s life difficult?”

“I said it’s okay,” Scott volunteers, leaning slightly across the seat to speak to the phone on the dashboard. “Lydia, I’ll take care of him. How much trouble do you think he’s going to get into?”

“This is _Stiles_.”

“Who is right here, driving a ridiculously old Jeep because my Maserati broke down and why _shouldn’t_ I get out and have some fun? Honestly, Lydia, it’s a club.” Stiles taps a rhythm on the steering wheel while he waits for a light to turn. It’s not _exactly_ the middle of nowhere. Admittedly, he’d broken down on the edge of town, where the oldest houses were built, before it got into a section of suburban cookie cutter homes, and now he seems to be heading into a depressed-looking downtown area that mimics the feel of an older small city. “The people at the garage had no idea who I am. If they did, they would’ve bent over backwards to get me better service, and they would’ve gotten me a real rental rather than this piece of crap loaner that looks like it hasn’t been driven in a decade.”

“It’s a classic car, Stiles,” Scott says quietly.

Stiles shoots him a look because he is _not_ going to admit that the stupid baby blue loaner Jeep might have wormed its way into his heart as soon as he saw it. It _might_ have reminded him of pictures his mom used to show him of the car she owned when she was first married to his dad. It _might_ have struck a chord, but Stiles—who drives a fucking _Maserati GranCabrio Sport_ , thank you very much—is _not_ going to admit that this stupid old clunker makes him sentimental about a family he never really got to keep around.

Which means, of course, that Scott’s probably already figured it out. Their friendship is like that.

“Just because one person didn’t recognize you doesn’t mean that you’ll be safe out in public,” Lydia says quietly. “ _High School Werewolf_ is one of the top ten rated shows for teens and young adults. You need to be careful.”

“And we _will_ be careful.” Stiles twists the steering wheel, wincing at the clunking sound as he pulls into the parking lot and finds himself a spot behind a pitch black Camaro. “I swear to God, Lydia, I am not here as a publicity stunt and no one is going to pay any attention to me. My hair is longer than Dylan’s—I’m either going to need to get them to change his character design or I’ll get it buzzed when I get back on set. I’m not wearing his trademark leather jacket, my eyes don’t flash, and right now I’m just another guy in tight jeans and a t-shirt in a gay club.”

“You didn’t mention it’s—”

“Erica actually said it’s _mostly_ a gay club, but plenty of straight people hang out here too,” Scott interjects.

“Which makes it a perfect place for a bisexual guy to enjoy a night out.”

“Do _not_ do anything which is going to require me paying someone off or trying to get a retraction printed from a scandal site,” Lydia says darkly. “Behave, Stiles.”

He raises his hand as if he’s taking an oath. “I always do, Lydia, I always do.” When he taps the disconnect button on the phone, he glances at Scott, “You ready to go on in, buddy?”

“You do _not_ always behave,” Scott points out, although he doesn’t argue going in, simply undoing his seat belt and climbing down from the Jeep.

Stiles opens the door and spills out inelegantly, slamming the door behind him with a creek and a thud. “I have to behave—it’s called behavior because it’s what we _do_. She just thinks she’s asking me to behave _well_ and that’s such a subjective thing, Scotty. Trust me, I intend to behave _very_ well. Well enough to have a grand old night full of alcohol and possibly an orgasm or three, all under cover of complete anonymity.”

“I’ll rescue you if it gets bad,” Scott reassures him, and Stiles knows he’s stronger than he looks, but he’d still rather not test Scott’s actual hand-to-hand techniques as a bodyguard. Still, it’s nice to know that his best friend is completely loyal and always there when he needs him.

They get to the door and Scott hands over the cover while Stiles peers around the doorway to look in. He doesn’t expect to see anyone he knows, but he spots the people who helped him at the garage—the mechanic, Boyd, is standing near the door like a bouncer, and the girl from the front desk, Erica, is behind the bar. She waves when she spots him, and Boyd nods as they both pass by to find a seat while Erica pulls two beers without asking.

“The handy thing about being an adult playing a teen is that you can actually drink when you want,” she says, sliding the glasses across the counter, and Stiles glances over sharply.

“You _did_ recognize me. Is this a setup? Are you giving me shitty service at the garage as some kind of weird punishment for being famous?” He’s wary, even more so when she laughs.

“One of my best friends is a fan and I wanted to surprise him,” Erica admits. “You’re stuck here, he’ll go speechless and it’ll be funny, and well, I’m all over keeping myself entertained. How’s the Jeep working out for you?”

“What would you charge me for it if I bought it tomorrow to get on the road?” Stiles counters her question with one of his own. It’s not that he wants the car. He just doesn’t want to have to wait around for obscure car parts. He can send someone back to get the Maserati any time.

Erica shakes her head as she pulls another beer. “It’s not for sale. The sheriff actually owns it, but we’ve been keeping it for him. It’s sentimental, so don’t even try.” She thunks the beer down on the counter, slides it to the empty seat by Stiles left elbow. “Hey, Isaac.”

Stiles turns on the stool slowly, well aware of Scott peering past him, making sure everything’s okay. He puts on a slow smile, figuring that _this_ has to be the fan Erica mentioned. “Hey, Isaac,” he repeats.

Isaac’s eyebrows go up and he looks from Stiles to Erica and back to Stiles again. “No.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably yes.” Stiles grabs his beer, downs it in two gulps. “Unless it’s _will he fuck me_ because then the answer is no. You’re not actually my type. Which is impressive because I have a lot of range in _my type_. Autographing random and taboo body parts though? That I’ll do.”

“Stiles,” Scott murmurs in warning.

Isaac closes his mouth, just turns and _stares_ at Erica. She smirks and blows him a kiss. “I’m on break, Isaac. Take over for me.” She unties her apron and drops it on the counter between them before she walks out. By the time Stiles turns back, Scott is on his feet and standing between Isaac and Stiles as if he expects trouble.

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, his hand on Scott’s arm. “Seriously, dude, I’m fine.”

“Are you two together?” Isaac is staring at the way Stiles holds onto Scott, then gestures at the bar around them. “That’s what the rumors say, and you’re _here_.”

Scott’s eyes go wide as he makes an inarticulate noise, and Stiles just starts laughing. “God no, that would be like fucking my brother. If I had a brother, which I actually do, because Scott here is my brother from another mother.” He slaps Scott on the back, and Scott hip checks him back. “We are best friends, and Scott’s my bodyguard, but that’s it. Sleeping with Scott would be like sleeping with Lydia—weird, uncomfortable, and probably vaguely dangerous for my career. Not something I’m going to do.” He tilts his head, considering, and shrugs. “So if you want a shot at him, go for it. Don’t let me get in your way.” 

Stiles uses Scott’s arm as leverage to get himself off the stool, claiming Scott’s untouched beer as he goes and drinking that down as well. “I am going to dance,” he states firmly. “Out there, on the dance floor, among a huge crowd of people who are gyrating in near darkness and aren’t likely to know who I am. You can flirt if you want, or follow me out there, or however you choose to handle this. I promise not to try for any back room blowies without letting you know where I’m going.”

“If you lock yourself in the bathroom, Boyd will break the door down and throw you out on your ass, no matter how famous you are,” Isaac says with a small shrug. “If you want to chance that, it’s your funeral, but since Erica told me that Boyd’s also working on your car, you might not want to antagonize the guy who has your ticket out of here.”

“You weren’t really thinking of buying that Jeep, were you?” 

Stiles can’t look at Scott after he asks that question. They may not be supernatural beings, but Scott has always had a way of knowing when Stiles is lying. “Nope, of course not,” Stiles says with a completely straight face. “Sure, it’s classic, just like you said, but it’s a piece of junk. It’d probably die halfway to LA. We’ll just wait on the Maserati. And in the meantime, I’m going to dance.”

He pushes away from Scott, half expecting him to follow, but not entirely surprised when Scott decides to stay where he is. He sees Isaac vault over the bar and start mixing drinks for patrons, and while he can’t see the look in Scott’s eyes, he has a feeling he knows what it is. It wouldn’t be the first time Scott went twitterpated on first meeting.

It also won’t last past the first hour. It never does.

Stiles eases his way through the crowd, moving fluidly to the beat before he even makes it fully onto the floor. He laughs when someone dances with him, his hips shifting, arms loose and easy by his side. He doesn’t care who he dances with—doesn’t care whether they’re male or female, or how close they get. Stiles has never worried about his personal bubble, not even after becoming a household name for the 18-25 year olds of the US and possibly parts of the world.

He just wants to have fun, so he does.

He somehow ends up in the middle of the floor, moving from partner to partner until he feels someone come up behind him, hands on his hips to fit him back against a solid, hard body. Stiles can’t resist, so he wiggles his ass, stays nice and close as they dance, fitting together like puzzle pieces. It’s like he can predict the moves of someone he can’t see, like if he closes his eyes and gives over to some sixth sense, they know each other and can dance together perfectly. They move from one song to another, until Stiles is hot and sweaty and completely relaxed, loose and easy on the dance floor.

A song ends and as another begins, the body behind him goes tense. Stiles can imagine the way he lifts his head as if listening, and by the time Stiles turns, all he sees is a broad-shouldered back and dark hair moving quickly towards the back of the room.

Stiles is exhausted in the wake of his partner leaving, and he waves off the people who try to draw him into moving again, threading through the crowd back to the bar. He holds up two fingers and Erica meets him with two beers and a shot, saying, “On the house. Isaac says thank you.”

He’s not exactly sure what Isaac is thanking him for, but he’s guessing that Isaac and Scott traded numbers, or played tonsil-hockey, or something more creative. Either way, Stiles is ready for a cool down, so he starts with the first beer, gulping it down, then sipping the second slowly while he regains his breath. He’s always loved to dance—he went through ten solid years of dance lessons thanks to his mom, growing up on the dance floor—but it’s rare that he gets to just let loose. In LA, everyone knows him, and he’s mobbed and has to be surrounded by more bodyguards than just Scott.

He feels strangely safe here.

He tilts his second beer and calls out, “Where am I again?”

“Beacon Hills,” Erica replies. “Or Jungle, if that’s what you meant.”

Stiles barks a short laugh because honestly, being in a place filled with animals is just perfect. He curves the fingers of his right hand to mimic claws or teeth by his mouth and mock growls until Erica laughs, getting the joke.

Maybe a Jungle isn’t the right place for an alpha werewolf, but it’s the right idea. Not that he’s really an alpha werewolf. It’s all fantasy, no matter what some of his more rabid fans might think. He’s been asked to make his eyes flash red before, like it’s something he can really do, and fans have asked to see his fangs. Usually, though, they’re just all over him, trying to touch him, not treating him like he’s human.

He’s enjoying the fact that here in Jungle, he’s just one more guy out for a good time.

Scott reappears before Stiles finishes his drink, veering off from Isaac to join Stiles at the bar while Isaac slips behind it, leaning in to speak to Erica. They both wave to Boyd, and a moment later Erica is handing off her apron to a guy Stiles doesn’t recognize while Isaac comes around to talk to Scott.

“A friend of ours needs some help.” Isaac’s voice is low, but still loud enough to be heard above the pounding music. “Text me when you’re up in the morning; I’ll take you to our favorite diner. Both of you.” He includes Stiles in his invitation. “Best pancakes in Beacon Hills, and they give you plenty of bacon. It’ll be worth it.”

Scott’s smile is a sunbeam as he nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I’ll do that. Maybe we can do something tomorrow afternoon, if we’re still stuck here.”

“Maybe we’ll make sure you’re still stuck here, if it means I don’t have to listen to Isaac whining about missing out on a booty call.” Erica grips Isaac’s shoulder, tugging him away. “C’mon, pretty boy. Flirt time is over. You don’t really want to keep Derek waiting, do you?”

Isaac’s gaze drops in a way that almost seems subservient. “Time to go,” he says, the smirk reappearing abruptly as if he never looked away. He reaches out, palms the nape of Scott’s neck and tugs him in, kissing him hard enough to leave Scott staring after him, bemused.

“You’re in love again,” Stiles says dryly. “I get stuck somewhere, you fall in love. How does this happen?”

“It’s not common!” Scott protests.

“Remind me again about that girl you saw when we were stuck in the airport? The one you swore you were going to marry if you could just meet her and get her name?”

“I never did find out.” Scott sighs, the soft smile lifting his lips in memory. “I still think she was the one.”

“This is real life,” Stiles points out. “There are no mystical mates. Just great sex, and sometimes if you’re lucky, mutual emotions that happen to work out. Although given the divorce rate in this country, more often than not, marriage is a bad bet.”

“You’re too young to be so jaded.”

“And I am not nearly drunk enough to be maudlin.” Stiles shakes his head as he finishes the second beer, then tosses back the shot. “I am also done drinking. Let’s get out of here.”

They aren’t drunk, per se, but neither of them is perfectly steady on their feet. Stiles is trusting in anonymity, smiling slightly as they pass people, trying to seem just vaguely _there_ rather than letting his star personality shine through. They make it to the door and out into the cold air, which knocks a bit of sense into them both.

“Dude.” Scott grabs his arm and leans in, expression serious. “We can’t drive.”

“Very true, buddy.” Stiles untangles Scott’s hand from his arm and manages to rearrange them both so that he has one arm around Scott’s back, Scott’s arm looped across his shoulders. He could stand up on his own—he thinks he could anyway—but this is more stable. More predictable. “That means we are gonna walk. The cold air will help sober us up. Keep us awake until we get back to the hotel.”

They find a rhythm while walking, the cool air comfortable as they move. Stiles doesn’t ask about Isaac—he’s half afraid to hear the answer—and Scott doesn’t ask why Stiles didn’t end up doing something more than dancing. The advantage of having a bodyguard who’s been his best friend since they were eleven means not always having to _talk_. They can just walk and enjoy the night and leave the shit for another day.

“What’s that?” Scott pulls away from Stiles, leaving him wobbling for a moment until he finds his balance.

“Dude, give a guy some warning—mph.” Stiles stops talking as Scott claps a hand over his mouth, leaning in to shush him quietly.

“Don’t you hear that?”

Stiles goes silent and _listens_ and he hears it then, a rustling from a nearby ally of something big moving around, and a low growl underneath it all.

“I think the show is starting to get to you, Scotty,” Stiles murmurs, licking the palm of Scott’s hand to make him let go. “Maybe you shouldn’t hang around on set if you’re going to get paranoid.”

“Get down!”

Stiles hits the ground, too well-trained to do anything other than pay attention when Scott shouts. He feels the hand in the middle of his back pushing him down, feels the way Scott vaults over him into the path of whatever it is that’s coming out of the ally.

There’s a snarl and a shout, and a smack of metal on flesh.

Stiles gets his arms under him, trying to ignore the way his palms are bitten by the pavement, his knees aching from the way he slammed into the hard ground. His head is ringing, and for a minute he’s not sure he’s really seeing what’s there in front of him.

A monster.

Scott is fighting a fucking _monster_.

It stands like a huge, hunched over man, tufts of fur sprouting from it’s shoulders and arms, fur in a thick ruff all around its head. The mouth is a snout, filled with sharp teeth as it growls, snarling at Scott, and the eyes are brightly, disturbingly red and far too intelligent to be purely animal.

Scott brandishes a pistol in his hand, held to use as a battering weapon rather than to fire it, his legs spread and his center of gravity low.

“Run!” he orders, and Stiles scrambles to his feet. He makes it just a few steps before he realizes Scott isn’t with him and he stumbles to a halt.

“Scott!”

Scott pulls his arm back, whips it forward with all his power, slamming the gun into the beast’s snout. It roars in anger, rearing up, and Scott spins on his heel, rushing towards Stiles, pushing at him. “Run!” he orders again, and Stiles goes, reassured that Scott is by his side.

He doesn’t care where he’s going, just that he’s being chased by something that looks a fucking lot like a monstrous wolf and the irony is _not_ lost on him, he just doesn’t have time to dwell on it as he twists and turns through the city streets. He’s no longer buzzed at all, his heart hammering hard in his chest as he skids to a halt, the snarls sounding in the distance.

“I think we’re far enough away, Scott.” Stiles drags in a breath, leans back against a stone wall, hand pushing at the hair over his forehead. “I think we’re safe.”

No answer.

“Scott?” He looks around, because _Scott isn’t there_. 

In the distance he hears a growl again, and a shout of pain.

 _Fuck_.

“Stupid fucking over-protective _idiot_ ,” Stiles grumbles, pushing away from the wall, running back the way he’d come. He doesn’t know which streets, which way, but he follows the growls and shouts, running towards the sounds until he sees it, rearing up on its hind legs, howling its anger.

It’s not alone. There are other creatures there, fighting with it, and he thinks he might see Scott on the ground, still conscious, staying out of the fight. “Scott!” he yells, and everyone looks at him.

The beast leaps, knocked off-course by the biggest fucking actually alive wolf Stiles has ever seen. The damned thing is pitch black except for its feet and muzzle, and the bright red eyes that glow in the darkness. It wouldn’t be out of place on the set except for the fact that it is far more realistic than any damned _effect_ Stiles has ever used on his show.

It’s real, and it’s fighting off the beast, which is also real and doing its damnedest to get at Stiles.

There’s a shout, and Stiles is pretty sure one of the other three smaller creatures said something that ought to make sense, but he can’t parse it, not right now. Not when the wolf is leaping at him, growling and _herding_ him away from the fight, while the other three get the attention of the monster and Scott scuttles backwards out of the way.

“Run, Stiles!” The yell is faint, but Scott is looking right at him, waving a hand, and Stiles _does_ , he runs again, the wolf nipping at his heels and the sound of battle fading behind him.

He doesn’t realize he’s still being herded until he finds himself on the outskirts of the city, heading into the more rural area. He stops running and leans against a tree, trying to drag air into his lungs, holding up one hand. “I think we’re safe, Lassie,” he manages to say, and the wolf lifts one side of its mouth, snarling at him.

The eyes are green now, the color of the forest cast in sunlight. The wolf moves slowly towards him, nuzzling at his hand when Stiles refuses to move, and he tangles his hand in its ruff.

“Yeah, thanks,” Stiles says quietly. “I get it, you saved my ass. I’m just hoping your friends saved Scott’s ass, too.” It hits him then, what happened. It’s like a fucking movie, or a tv show. Except it _happened_ and there’s a _wolf_ and he’s a guy who plays a _werewolf_ and that’s when he starts laughing because this can’t be possible. It can’t be real even though he knows that it is.

He slides down the tree, the bark scraping his back through his shirt, and he can’t _stop_ laughing. He doesn’t know what to do, and when the wolf licks at his cheek, he doesn’t stop it from getting closer.

“This isn’t a good place for me to stay, Lassie,” Stiles whispers, and when the wolf nips at his shoulder, teeth closing over him without biting down, he laughs again, the sound on the edge. “Okay, I get it, you don’t like being called Lassie. Just needed something, since you can’t exactly give me a name, right? I could start going through the alphabet, bark if I get it right. Avery? Alex? Ben?” The wolf noses at his cheek and he stops, his eyes closing as adrenalin seeps away, leaving him exhausted.

“Fuck.” Stiles has a lap full of wolf, the huge head tucked up under his chin, tongue lapping at the salt and sweat from his skin. He puts his arm around him, holding onto the fur, fully aware of the fact that this is insane and he shouldn’t be hugging a wild animal, but it feels safe. It’s strange but _safe_ , and he’s exhausted. There’s nothing left to keep him awake so he just lets go, and prays that Scott comes to find him soon.

#

Stiles wakes alone in the middle of a king-sized bed that is definitely not where he fell asleep, nor part of the motel room he rented with Scott. He’s sprawled face down, butt in the air, the sheets tangled around his legs and his arms wrapped around a pillow that he has hugged to his chest. He stretches slowly, feeling the ache in his muscles that he normally gets after a long day of shooting action scenes. Plus he has to piss like crazy, and as he rolls over, he prays that one of the two doors in the unknown room leads to a bathroom.

He hopes the other one leads to some sort of explanation of what the fuck is going on.

One of the doors is definitely a bathroom, decorated in early industrial chic, and he takes care of waking himself up and making sure his clothes are halfway presentable despite being wrinkled and slept-in. He prays no one saw him come in here, no one recognized him, because the last thing he needs is for paparazzi to spot him sleepily leaving a place that isn’t where he should be.

Steeling himself for whatever he may come, he pushes open the other door to the room and heads down the wrought iron spiral staircase into the open-floored loft below.

“Dude!” Scott’s cheery voice is almost too loud, and Stiles touches his ears and shakes his head in a silent sign to lower the volume, which thankfully Scott does before he continues. “Dude,” Scott says again, and Stiles locates him sitting on a stool next to an island that separates the main room from the kitchenette. “I thought you were going to sleep in forever. Isaac’s been ready for breakfast for an hour.”

The words all make sense, and they apply to the plans _before_ monsters invaded reality, but they do _not_ apply to waking up in strange beds in strange places. “What?” Stiles says, tone flat. “Are we at Isaac’s place?”

“We’re at Derek’s place.” Scott reaches for an apple out of a bowl and tosses it to Stiles. “He’s a friend of Isaac’s, and he found you and brought you here, and Isaac called me. They got tired of waiting for you, so I’ve got directions to the diner and said we’d join them when you woke up.”

The name sounds familiar, but being found matches up to a memory of thick fur and a low growl in Stiles’s mind which continues to make absolutely no sense. He bites into the apple, sharp and sweet, and his stomach rumbles in response.

Breakfast might not be a bad idea.

“I reek,” Stiles says plainly. “I may have showered, but my clothes still smell like club and beer and I am _not_ going out dressed like I was last night. Give me a minute to ransack a closet somewhere and find something to wear.” He frowns, looking Scott over from head to toe. “Dude. You’ve been back to the hotel. You’re okay after last night?” His memory of the night might be fuzzy from the point after they left Jungle, but the calm of the morning doesn’t seem to match up.

Scott’s gaze skates away from him, looking at a point on the wall as he says, “Yeah, I’m totally fine. There was that crazy guy that jumped us, and he was jacked up on something. Right after I convinced you to run, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd showed up and helped me fight him off. He took off after that, and they gave me a lift back to the hotel. Isaac and I cleaned up while Erica and Boyd went back out to look for you.”

“And their friend found me.”

“Derek, right.”

There’s something about Scott’s story that doesn’t fit, especially with the way Scott won’t look at him. Scott has never been any good at lying, especially to Stiles, and there’s something he’s holding back now. On the other hand, he’s pretty sure Scott’s not going to give up whatever it is right away.

Stiles sighs. “Right. Let me get changed, then we’ll go.”

He heads back upstairs and starts digging through closets and drawers. He refuses to wear someone else’s underwear, and none of the pants are going to fit his lean frame. But he finds a few likely options in the t-shirts, including an old, thread-bare _High School Werewolf_ t-shirt from the first season that just has the stylized logo for the show, followed by the season one tagline: _howl for your heart_.

It’s too meta for Stiles to resist, and he tugs it on over his head, even though it stretches taut across his frame. It’s not so small that he’ll rip it or stretch it out of shape, and besides, it’s just for a few hours. Just for breakfast.

A little more digging turns up some sunglasses that he throws on as his nod to stereotypical screen star getup, then declares himself ready while Scott makes faces and gags at the t-shirt.

They take the elevator down from the top floor, and Stiles can see that it’s an old industrial building that’s been converted to multi-floor lofts. Whoever Derek is, he probably has decent money if he’s living here. Which doesn’t really go with the _teen fan of television_ image that the t-shirt gives Stiles, but maybe the shirt just belongs to a younger brother or sister. Either way, it’s on Stiles now, and he’s not giving it up.

The baby blue Jeep is parked on the street outside the building, and Scott tosses the keys to Stiles. He doesn’t know who brought it here or when, but he’s thankful to have transportation and oddly comforted to see the Jeep again after abandoning it the night before. They strap in and Stiles follows Scott’s directions back out of the city, to the edge of suburbia and down a small side road until they pull up in front of a place that looks like it was converted out of an old farmhouse. There are more cars parked around it on the street than Stiles would expect, and he pulls up behind a pitch black Camaro and parks.

He stumbles out of the Jeep and stops, staring at the car. “Is that the same…” Maybe it belongs to Isaac, although he didn’t really strike Stiles as the Camaro kind of guy. He didn’t see it at the garage when he dropped off the Maserati, so he doubts it belongs to Boyd or Erica, although he could _definitely_ imagine Erica behind the wheel.

Scott leads the way into the diner; it looks like he’s being polite when he pushes the door open, but Stiles knows it’s actually his way of checking to see if anyone’s likely to pay attention to Stiles. Thankfully, Scott just nods and motions him in, and Stiles pushes the shades up onto the top of his head as a handy holding place as he steps inside.

He spots Isaac, Erica, and Boyd in a big, U-shaped corner booth. Isaac waves them over, and Scott slides into one side where Isaac has left a space, and Erica motions for Stiles to slide in next to her on the other side. “Leave room for Derek,” she says, so he budges over a little closer than he might otherwise. It’s going to be tight to fit six on the curved bench, but Isaac and Scott don’t seem to mind being packed in close, and Erica wiggles her bottom closer to Boyd, who drops an arm around her shoulders.

Apparently Stiles is the third wheel here.

“How’re you feeling this morning, Scott?” Boyd looks past Isaac to ask, and Scott holds up both his hands.

“Perfectly fine, not a mark on me,” he says quickly. “Isaac checked, and we couldn’t find anything.”

 _Isaac checked_. Stiles snorts. “I bet he did.”

Isaac only smirks, responding, “ _Thoroughly_ ,” while Scott ducks his head and grins.

The bench dips slightly as someone slides in next to Stiles, crowding him with a broad-shouldered frame. “Called Mom, and she’s on it, but she hasn’t seen anything out her way. She’s trying to reach Uncle Peter and Uncle David to find out if they’ve heard anything where they are, if it’s something that’s on the move.”

“We’ll go out looking again tonight,” Boyd says with a low rumble in his voice.

Erica clears her throat, and both Boyd and the newcomer look at Stiles. It gives Stiles a chance to look his fill, since there are mossy green eyes staring back at him frankly.

He’s maybe the same height as Stiles, with broader shoulders, and a hint of thick chest hair showing through the opened buttons of his bright blue henley. He has the kind of scruff on his face that makes Stiles want to lean in, rub his face against it until it burns, and dark hair with a slight wave to it. Nostrils flare, and the stranger leans in, almost as if he’s sniffing Stiles; he leans back and Erica laughs when he can’t go any further.

“Derek, this is Stiles,” she says. “Stiles, this is our friend Derek. You can thank him for bringing you in safely last night.”

Derek smiles then, bright and wide, full of sharp teeth and humor. He opens his mouth, and the last thing Stiles expects spills out: his birth name, in all its barely pronounceable glory, spoken with a perfect accent.

Stiles is rarely speechless, but this is one of those moments. He realizes his mouth is hanging open, and he closes it, swallows and martial his thoughts. “Just Stiles,” he finally says. “Almost no one remembers the first few credits under the real name, and you may be the only person other than my mother who can actually pronounce it.”

Something flickers in Derek’s gaze; he looks at Erica for a moment, then back to Stiles. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

Stiles glances down and he laughs. “Dude, this shirt wouldn’t fit you. If you tried to put it on, it’d shred in an instant. It barely fits me.”

Derek shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve had it since I was nineteen, when the first season came out.”

Stiles does some quick calculations, parses through all the information that comes from that one statement. First: Derek is twenty-five, only two years older than Stiles, even though the scruff makes him look older. Second: Derek has seen the show, and from the inflection, Stiles thinks he might even still be _watching_ the show. Third: from the look Derek is giving him, he _really_ likes this shirt.

“Um.” Stiles shrugs, spreading his hands. “I’d take it off and give it back, but I’m pretty sure it’s _no shirt, no shoes, no service_ here, and I was looking forward to breakfast. Do you want me to sign it as a thank you after?” When Derek’s eyes go stormy, Stiles isn’t sure what he said wrong. “Or I could get you any other memorabilia that you might want. It’s not like it’s hard for me to get my hands on things, even from the first season.”

A touch on his arm brings his attention to Erica. “Stiles, Derek’s the friend who’s a fan that I mentioned last night.”

Derek curls the corner of his lip and the sound he makes is almost like a growl. Erica doesn’t look bothered by it, staring him down until Derek _harrumphs_ and raises a hand to get the waitress’s attention. “Let’s order.”

Stiles leans away from him as far as he can, whispers to Erica, “Honestly last night I thought you meant Isaac, but I can see that _yes_ , he’s a fan, and I’m trying to be friendly. What am I doing wrong?”

Erica’s whisper is so quiet he’s not sure he heard it when she’s done. “Sometimes meeting people in the flesh turns out nothing like what we expect.”

Great. Stiles is stranded, has been chased by a vicious animal, and now he’s disappointed this fucking gorgeous fan by turning out to be a normal guy after all. This road trip is not going well.

Except for Scott, who is now sucking face with Isaac. For Scott, the trip seems to be going _brilliantly_.

The waitress takes their orders, Scott getting whatever Isaac gets, and Stiles hastily deciding that waffles, eggs, and bacon have to be good, without even looking at the menu. As soon as she leaves, Boyd glares at Erica, and sighs.

“Heard from the distributor this morning,” he says. “They don’t ship on Saturday, so the part for the Maserati won’t go out until Monday. Having it sent overnight—figure you’re good to pay for it—ought to have it here on Tuesday morning, figure out if we can get your car back on the road by that night.”

“When do you have to be back on set?” Erica asks.

“A week from Monday,” Stiles admits. He wasn’t rushing on this road trip, although he hadn’t planned on having to get on a plane to fly back to make it on time, or having to just drive through the night to get back down to LA. “Leaving Wednesday would be fine.”

Derek makes a low noise that sounds like a pleased _hmph_ , and Stiles shoots him a strange look. 

The waitress brings the food quickly, and Stiles realizes he has the only normal looking plate, with two waffles, two slices of bacon, two eggs, and hash browns. The others have a thick stack of pancakes, at least six high, matched by a pile of maybe a pound of bacon, and a thick omelet with cheese. The waitress sets down a carafe of coffee, a pitcher of cream, and a pitcher of water, then walks away.

“Trust me,” Isaac says, reaching for a piece of bacon, and Scott nods slowly, still staring at the pile of food.

It’s impressive how quickly it all disappears. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac start talking about a show Stiles hasn’t had time to watch, Derek joining in to make quiet points periodically, and all the while the food just… goes away. By the time Stiles is done with his eggs, most of the bacon on the table is already gone, and he puts a hand over his plate when he sees Erica reaching for his. She pouts, and he picks up both pieces, shoving them in his mouth and grinning at her while he chews.

“Gross,” she says.

“I told you he’s normal,” Scott tells her, and Erica nods.

“I wasn’t trying to be an ass,” Stiles says quietly, leaning a little closer to Derek. “I couldn’t resist the meta of wearing the shirt when I went looking for something clean. Besides, everything else you had was way too big.”

“I’ve grown since then,” Derek replies, stabbing at a thick forkful of pancakes. He chews quietly, swallows before saying, “I like the show.”

“So, you’re the fan Erica said would be speechless to meet me?” Stiles asks, and when Derek doesn’t say a word, Stiles simply sticks out his hand, and waits. Derek takes it slowly, squeezes a little.

“We actually met, last night.” Derek holds on a little longer, fingers lingering against Stiles’s skin as he pulls away. “We danced.”

It takes him a moment, then he figures it out: the guy that made dancing feel like instinct. “You were the dude who took off.” Stiles leans back, tries to get a view of him from the back, and it does kind of match up.

“Had to go take care of something.” There’s a ping from a phone, and Derek grumbles, fishing his out of his pocket. “Still trying to take care of something.” He looks at whatever it is, shoves the phone back in his pocket. “David says the path to the south is clear; no news. Mom turned up some rumbling north of here, but still can’t reach Peter. She’s going to try Malia next.”

“Family problems?”

“Sort of.” Derek goes silent, eating again, and Stiles doesn’t try to push it. “Cora and Jackson are joining us. Squeeze in.”

Stiles isn’t sure how the hell they’re going to get more people in the booth, but they push back just in time for a guy who looks like a model—right down to the expensive clothes, and Stiles _knows_ expensive clothes—to slide in next to Derek, and a girl with the same damned eyebrows as Derek to push into Scott’s space.

The girl—Cora, Stiles assumes—waves her hand and calls out, “The usual!” and the waitress nods in response.

“I heard from Malia,” Cora says, leaning on the table to nudge Derek. She pauses mid push and shifts her gaze, staring at Stiles. “Is that…”

“Stiles,” he says, and she closes her mouth with a snap.

“Whoa. Did you ask—”

“No.” Derek cuts her off with both words and a sharp wave of his hand. “What was that about Malia?”

“Her mom died about a week ago.” Cora’s tone goes serious. “She’s on her way here.”

“And Peter?”

Cora’s smile is thin. “Malia’s pretty sure he’s also on his way here, but he wasn’t exactly talking about his current life goals.”

Derek nods, gestures at the new plates being added to the table. “Eat. When we’re done, Stiles, go back to your hotel and stay there. Scott, stay with him. Don’t come out until Isaac tells you it’s safe.”

“You don’t get to order me around,” Stiles says dryly. “I am not going to go sit in my room and twiddle my thumbs just because you say so.”

“You’d be surprised,” the other newcomer—Jackson, Stiles thinks—says dryly. “He’s pretty good at acting like he’s in charge.”

“You love it,” Cora says, digging in to her bacon. “Just get used to it, Stiles. If you’re around for a little while, that’s how Derek is. He orders, we all jump.”

“I don’t.” And Stiles isn’t going to be around for long. Just long enough to get his car back on the road, then he and Scott are heading back to LA and Stiles gets back in the studio to work on the next season of the show.

“Just do it.” Derek glares and for a moment Stiles _swears_ he sees his eyes flash a bright red. It’s just enough to make him sit up straighter, stare and try to see it again.

He’s seen it before, but only in the effects after editing.

It’s not _real_.

“Is this about what happened last night? Because usually people leave the insane drunks to law enforcement,” Stiles points out. “They don’t go chasing them on their own.” He lets that sit there, lets them _ignore_ what he’s said while they finish up their food rapidly. Even Scott is putting away a ridiculous amount of food, more than Stiles has ever seen him handle in one sitting. “Or is it because it’s a monster, and you guys are the only ones in town able to take on the monsters?”

Cora snorts. “It’s not like your show is real, Stiles. Get a grip.”

“I didn’t say that I’m the creature,” Stiles shoots back. “I’m human. I’m an _actor_. You guys aren’t either.”

Scott glances at Isaac who nudges him, shoulder to shoulder. “We should go, Stiles,” Scott says.

It’s not the answer Stiles is looking for, but it’s enough to make him think he’s on the right track. He nudges at Derek, makes him and Jackson get up so that he can slide out of the bench seat. “Fine. We’ll go back to our room. But we’re not done with this conversation, not by a long shot.”

Derek grips his shoulder, catching him just before he can leave. “Stay at the hotel until we contact you,” he says quietly. “For your own safety. Because you are _not_ the monsters.”

Which implies that there are monsters out there, and that they might want to taste Stiles’s flesh for some reason or another. Stiles raises his hand, touches Derek’s brow ridge, then lets his fingers skate down to the outer edges of his eyes. He nods slowly. “Fine. We’ll stay put for now.”

#

“They’re werewolves.” Stiles hasn’t stopped pacing since they got back to the hotel. “They’ve flashed their eyes at me, Scotty. It’s all _real_. Somehow everything I’ve been doing for the last six years isn’t just a story, it’s based on _reality_.”

“Werewolves aren’t real.” Scott’s sitting on the bed, his hands clasped between his knees as he looks at the well-worn carpet. “You know that, Stiles. You can’t let Lydia know that you’re starting to believe your own hype. Don’t enough people ask you if you’re a real alpha and can you give them the bite?”

“Let’s go then.” Stiles searches through his bag, finds a clean pair of jeans and underwear and heads to the bathroom. “Give me five minutes to get changed, and let’s go out.” It doesn’t take him long to change out of the jeans and underwear, perversely deciding to keep wearing the _High School Werewolf_ t-shirt that Derek’s had for six years. When he yanks open the bathroom door, Scott’s standing in the middle of the room, his hands loosely fisted by his sides, his stance wide as if he’s ready for a fight.

“Problem, Scotty?” Stiles usually pays attention to what Scott says. As his bodyguard, Scott’s in charge of where they go, how they stay safe. But right now, when Scott won’t look him in the eye, when it feels like Scott’s leaving something out, Stiles doesn’t want to listen. “Because I’m ready to go.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Scott says firmly.

“You just said werewolves aren’t real, right?” Stiles gets right up in his face, pokes a finger into his chest. “You said that monsters aren’t real, and you said the drunk guy from last night was taken out. Everything’s perfectly _fine_ and there is no reason for your new best friends to try to keep me trapped in a hotel room. So if that’s all _true_ , let’s go.”

Scott steps between Stiles and the door as soon as he moves, and that movement says all Stiles needs to know.

“Because it’s not true,” Stiles says quietly. “Because it’s _not safe_ and I’m _right_. Which means we’re going out anyway, because if this shit is real, I am going to see it for myself.”

“Stiles.” Scott catches at his arm. “You saw the thing last night. You know it’s not safe, so just… stay here. Until Isaac texts me that it’s okay. I’m sure it won’t be long.”

“What if your new kissyface partner gets in trouble?” Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Are you willing to risk Isaac’s safety?” He wiggles loose from Scott’s hold, throws an arm around his shoulder and heads for the door. “Don’t worry, we’re stopping by the sporting goods store I saw on the way here. It looked small, but I’m sure it has baseball bats.”

“Baseball bats?”

“Baseball bats,” Stiles says firmly. “We need weapons, and I’m not exactly licensed for a gun, and Lydia would kill me if I got arrested for carrying one illegally.”

He manages to get Scott into the Jeep and he finds the store without a problem. It probably should disturb him how easy it is to get around Beacon Hills after such a short time, but it all feels familiar and easy, like it’s fixing itself into his brain without him needing to think about it. He heads straight for the baseball section as soon as he gets there, hefting one bat after another until he finds one that has the swing he likes.

“Hey, Scotty, give this one a try—what?” Stiles pauses mid-swing, bat loose in his hands. “Scott?” That expression is the twitterpated one again, like he’s just fallen in love between one second and the next. “Is Isaac here?”

“It’s the girl from the airport. Remember her? _The girl from the airport_.” Scott takes two steps, then frowns, pausing. “Come with me. I’m not going to leave you alone.”

“Because it’s perfectly safe,” Stiles mutters, and Scott grabs his arm, tugging him along.

“Because we’re in public and someone could accost you.” 

Stiles is still lightly swinging the bat by the time they reach the hunting department, where one girl is deep in conversation with the salesman, while a petite Asian girl bounces lightly on her toes, idly looking around. She blinks and stops moving, getting in Scott’s way as they approach. 

“Hi,” the girl says. “Did you want hunting things? Because it looks like you want baseball things, and those are over there, and this is the hunting department. Bow hunting. For hunting things like deer. There are deer here, right? Maybe coyotes.”

“Actually, I just wanted to talk to her.” Scott points, his crooked smile as disarming as it ever is, and the girl responds with a smile of her own before it fades back to a frown.

“Allison’s busy. We’re both busy, very busy, holy shit are you Stiles Stilinski?” She claps a hand over her own mouth. “Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to swear. But you’re on my TV. In my TV. I mean. I watch your show. Like all the time. Horribly inaccurate.” She blinks, flashes a small smile before she shakes her head. “I fence. With swords. Stage fighting is weird to watch. And everyone does martial arts like its ballet. Do you actually do martial arts? Or do you have a stunt double? Or do they teach you to fight like it’s dance?”

“I danced for years before I started acting,” Stiles tells her. It’s in his bio, and it’s easy to talk about things. It used to be tough to bring up the things that he did with his mom, but being in the limelight didn’t give him the option of just hiding behind a wall of no emotion. Instead he smiles easily, settles into his public persona, while he kicks Scott’s foot to tell him that he’ll distract this girl while Scott goes to talk to the other one. The one who might be talking about ammunition, if Stiles is guessing right.

“So yes, I’m Stiles.” He tilts a hand, waits, and she gives him a confused look for a moment before her eyes go wide.

“Oh, I’m Kira. Kira Yukimura, and that’s Allison Argent. We’re friends. Just friends. Not that it would be bad to be something other than just friends, but she’s not interested, and I’m not interested in _her_ and whoa, that was not what you were asking.” Kira bubbles to a halt, a faint flush staining her cheeks. “I swear, I talk like this all the time, not just when I’m meeting someone famous. Can we selfie?” 

She holds out her phone and Stiles obediently moves to her side, making sure her attention is entirely on him. He has long arms, so he takes the phone from her, puts his head against hers, and whispers _smile_ before he grins and clicks the camera. Kira takes the camera back from him before he can check the picture and frowns at it. 

“I was blinking,” she says, and he’s pretty sure she deleted it. She hands him the camera again and comes close, and he can feel the way she inhales and exhales, slow and easy. “Just give me one second to get ready… okay, go ahead.”

This time she lets him look at the picture, her bright smile putting his to shame. She immediately posts it on Instagram, and Stiles sighs inside, knowing he’ll have a text from Lydia soon. It’s for Scott’s sake, so he can meet the girl he’s been wanting to meet ever since he saw her across a crowded airport. If she’s even really the same girl.

Stiles wonders how Isaac fits into this in Scott’s brain, then decides he’s better of not getting involved. Stiles wants to figure out the werewolf issue; Scott can deal with the relationships.

“This is Allison.” Scott has her hand in his, and she looks a little bemused, a bag over her other arm that Kira quickly takes from her. “She’s going bow hunting with Kira in the woods near here.”

“We’re licensed,” Kira offers. “Both of us. She’s better than me. I like swords. Like I said. I fence.”

“Kira,” Allison says, and Kira falls silent.

“Did you get her number, Scotty?” Stiles asks. “Because we have other places to go, things to do.” Monsters to hunt, which are _not_ deer. Although the bow Allison is carrying looks dangerous enough that he wonders how she gets away with walking into a place like this with it on her back.

Because _she’s_ hunting _deer_ , not people. _Obviously_.

Scott holds up his phone, shows a picture of Allison smiling and dimpled, and Stiles has to admit, he can see the appeal. Scott lets go of Allison’s hand, leans in and hesitates before she turns her cheek, and he kisses her gently there. “I’ll text you later,” he assures her.

“I’ll answer after our hunt. Ready, Kira?”

“Ready!” Kira bounces over to Allison, then pauses. “Don’t go to the Preserve, Stiles. I mean, we’re hunting. Deer. It’s dangerous. Bows and arrows. And some people might have guns. The deer aren’t dangerous. Well, sometimes they are. Ones with big antlers can gore you. Or a herd could trample you. Just don’t go there, okay? I want to see what happens on season seven. Do you think they’re going to have Dylan get back together with Ellie? She’s so cute. Do you think you could introduce me to her actress? I love girls like that.”

“Shannon is nothing like her character,” Stiles admits, because it’s just _true_. Ellie is a wild child on the show, a perfect foil to Stiles’s alpha wolf, but Shannon is entirely a Rodeo Drive kind of girl. She wouldn’t be caught dead in the things Ellie wears on a normal day. “Sorry to disappoint, but if I ever meet a real wild child werewolf, I’ll be sure to have Scott tell Allison so she can let you know.”

Kira glances at Allison, who frowns back at her like they’re having an entire conversation in a look and Stiles has a sinking feeling that maybe they aren’t hunting deer after all.

“We have to go now,” Kira says, but just before she does, she leans in close and whispers, “It’s all fake, you know. There aren’t any werewolves.”

The funny thing is, Stiles doesn’t believe her any more than he believed Scott when he said it. And if there are monsters, there are people who hunt them. All of them, even the good guys.

He waits for them to leave before he hefts the bat, testing the swing of it one more time. “Scott, buddy, we are going to buy two of these, then we’re heading to the Preserve. I get the feeling someone there is having a party, and if life is imitating art in the way I think it is, our new friends might be in trouble from our other new friends.”

Scott frowns, “Which, what?”

There’s so much that Stiles could say to explain, but he decides to just stick to the parts that he knows will get Scott moving. “If you don’t want Allison to kill Isaac, we need to get to the Preserve,” Stiles says plainly. “So pick up your weapon, Scotty, and let’s go.”

#

Of course, Stiles has no idea where or what the Preserve _is_.

They ask the clerk while Stiles pays for the bats, and the clerk gives directions back to the edge of town and mentions a trail head for hiking that Stiles vaguely remembers passing not long before the Maserati broke down. According to the clerk, the Preserve is huge and the road cuts straight through it, but hiking’s only allowed on one side; the other side is the private property of the Hale family.

Stiles takes two things away from the explanation: the clerk hasn’t warned them to watch out for hunters going after deer right about now, and whoever the Hales are, the rest of town doesn’t want to fuck with them.

“Do you still want to go to the Preserve?” Scott asks, and Stiles nods quickly. 

He waits until they get out to the car before he starts talking. “Look, it’s simple. If there are monsters, there are hunters, right? And hunters don’t always just hunt the actual monster-like monsters. Remember back in season two, when Ellie was first introduced, and Dylan found her after she’d been shot?”

“You’re believing your own hype again,” Scott says to the window.

And Scott’s not looking him in the eye. Stiles sighs. “Yeah, not so much believing my hype as believing the evidence and using the show for explanations. Trust me, I don’t want to believe that there’s this whole world that my mom might have known something about and she never told me, but she was involved in developing the show. She made sure I had this role, and this was her whole heart before she died, Scotty. And everything we’ve seen—the glowing eyes! How am I supposed to ignore that?”

“Maybe it’d be safer if we did.” Scott finally turns to look at him, and for a moment Stiles thinks he’s imagining things because he sees _Scott’s_ eyes flash a bright golden yellow, which is absolutely impossible. “Maybe we should just stay in the hotel, eat a good dinner, get your car fixed, and _go_.”

Stiles’s heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of his chest; Scott tilts his head, his gaze narrowing, and Stiles shifts his gaze to the road so he can pull out of the parking lot.

“Text Lydia,” Stiles orders. “Tell her that we’re going hiking with friends. Okay?”

Scott hesitates, but when Stiles nudges him, he agrees, bending over his phone to type the message out. The ping comes back almost immediately. “She says not to be an idiot.”

“Driving, can’t talk to her, we’ll text her when we’re done.” He pauses, then says more quietly, “Ask her to look into who consulted on the first season of _High School Werewolf_. Who worked with my mom on developing the show? Find out who created the mythology.”

“Sure.” Scott doesn’t sound happy, but he types something in anyway, and Stiles hopes he’s asking the questions, not just ranting to Lydia about how much of an idiot Stiles is being.

He figures it’s a fifty/fifty chance either way.

Stiles cranks up the music, drumming on the steering wheel as he drives, the old lessons coming out as soon as the rhythm shakes the car. Dance, music, starting out in commercials when he was eight years old. He was groomed to be the star he is now, and his mom isn’t even around to see it. He sings loud enough to drown out the memories and tries to focus his mind past the way his ADHD thoughts try to skitter away. He’s impressed when Scott doesn’t even try to complain, simply keeps texting with Lydia until Stiles parks the car at the trailhead, and spills out almost as soon as it’s stopped.

There’s one other car in the small dirt lot: a tiny Kia that looks new except for tires that have seen a lot of road wear. Stiles frowns at it, trying to put it together, and wonders just how much traveling they do. He has to assume it’s Kira and Allison, because if he were a werewolf (like he sometimes is on screen), he’d just run here rather than driving. Why waste gas when you’ve got super speed and stamina?

He reaches back into the Jeep to grab his bat and tosses the second one to Scott, who holds it awkwardly. “Come on,” Stiles says, motioning for Scott to follow. “Let’s hit the trail.”

They make it about twenty feet into the trees when Scott veers off the path, threading between two trees and stopping, head lifted as he breathes deeply.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Scott?” Stiles asks idly.

“Allison went this way.” Scott reverses their path, goes across the road and pushes through the thicker part of the forest, far from the trail, stepping over plants and following some path only he can see. Or scent. And Stiles is really starting to get a bad feeling about this and he almost wishes he _could_ believe what everyone keeps trying to tell him. He _wants_ to believe that werewolves aren’t real, because if they _are_ real, like he suspects, he also suspects his best friend and bodyguard just leveled up into the supernatural.

It’d be awesome if he weren’t freaking out about it right now. And if Scott would stop lying about it.

Scott is scrambling through the brush, and Stiles whacks at branches, trying to keep them out of his face as he goes. “Dude. Slow down.” Stiles has never had to move so quickly to catch up with Scott before, and he sees realization strike when Scott pauses and looks back.

“Am I moving that fast?”

Stiles nods, gestures at the scrape across his cheek from a stray branch. “Yeah, buddy, you are.”

“Huh.” Scott glances down, touches his hand to his chest in a gesture Stiles has known since they were children. His brows furrow as he inhales and exhales. “Nice. Come on.”

It’s tempting to tell him to slow down again.

Hell, it’s tempting to make him stop long enough to _talk_ and _explain_ and say _what the hell did you and Isaac talk about all night without me_ but Stiles doesn’t. He just follows, and when there’s a low growl and Scott starts running, Stiles takes off after him, stumbling through the woods as best he can.

Stiles overtakes Scott just in time for Scott to stop dead and Stiles to spill past him, falling through the trees and into a clearing where he can see a huge house in the distance, and people across the space in between.

More people than he expects, more than he can readily identify.

And one very much _not_ a person. A monster, hunched over, curled and furred and full of bared teeth, growling and snarling at the people gathered around it. Stiles spots Derek with Erica and Boyd and a girl he doesn’t recognize, and Jackson standing near two men in uniform, while Cora is with a gathered group of unfamiliar faces.

Who are _talking_ , while the creature snaps it’s huge maw at them but doesn’t move.

Stiles takes a step out, Scott by his side, halting immediately when he hears his _name_ , spoken in perfect pronunciation and it’s _not_ Derek’s voice. It’s one of the men in uniform, standing there with his hands on his hips, fingers resting on the butt of his gun like he might pull it out any second. His voice is a low, deep rumble, and Stiles can’t see his expression, but the sound strikes through his heart, shivers into him in a way that says he should know it but he doesn’t, not really. Does he?

“Don’t come any closer.” The man holds up one hand, tilts his head and listens as Derek says something. There’s a low snort. “Fine. Stay right where you are, Stiles. You can’t see them, but there are two lovely ladies with a sword and a bow trained on us, and I don’t want you and your friend there getting caught in the crossfire.”

Stiles doesn’t see Allison or Kira, but they fit the description, so he assume they’re here. Scott sighs next to him with a small smile that Stiles recognizes.

“Not the time,” Stiles mutters.

A woman stands in front of the creature, drops the robe from her shoulders. Her skin shines in the moonlight, shimmers and changes and _oh fuck yes_ , there’s a big black wolf standing there, teeth bared as it growls.

“Holy shit,” Scott whispers.

“You said it.” Stiles feels a tingle in his fingertips, and he wants to reach out, wants to move closer, wants to be _involved_. He pulls his hand back, cradles it to his chest as if he can trap it there and tries to breathe deeply. “It’s all fucking real. I told you.” No one can deny it anymore, not with the evidence right there in front of their eyes.

“I know.” Scott’s voice is small and almost embarrassed, so Stiles knocks his shoulder into him to say _no hard feelings_.

Stiles takes a deep breath, tries to catalog what he sees. There’s the creature that almost seems stuck in place, and he whispers _mountain ash_ under his breath as if that might be real, too. The wolf stands just a nose away from it, growling quietly. Scott bumps his shoulder, and jerks his head, and Stiles can spot Kira and Allison then in the tree line, a bow in Allison’s hand with an arrow nocked and trained on the creature.

Everyone seems almost frozen.

“If you don’t kill it, I will,” Allison calls out. “I don’t have any argument with the rest of you. I’m willing to walk away and forget I ever met the Hale packs. But that thing? That thing has killed over a dozen people between Seattle and here. That’s a wake of dead bodies. I can’t ignore that.”

“He’s grieving.” A girl is held back by Derek, her teeth bared and feral as she growls at Allison. “He’s _grieving_. He lost his anchor and he’s gone mad and he’s my _dad_ and god _damnit_ can you just put the weapon down long enough for us to fix this?”

“Allison.” Kira puts a hand on Allison’s arm, and the bow lowers just slightly. “We don’t kill unless it’s necessary.”

“What if I think it’s necessary?” Allison says tightly.

“We protect those who cannot protect themselves,” Kira responds quickly. “Yes, he killed, but he’s also insane with grief. Let them help him first, then make reparations. Don’t kill a madman until he has a chance to do right.”

“I’m going to break the barrier.” The man in uniform—the one who spoke to Stiles—calls out as he moves forward, crouches down far too close to the wolf and the creature for comfort. He rubs at something on the ground, and the creature _leaps_.

Stiles loses track of what happens for a little while after that.

He sees the flurry of activity, the way Derek yanks the officer out of the way, the way the big black wolf leaps on the creature in return and they roll across the ground. He sees Derek’s friends leap into the fray, he sees a flash of yellow from Scott before he whines and steps backwards, shivering. Derek seems to disappear, then a black shadow leaps across the grounds at him, knocking him the ground and taking his breath, while he hears a shriek of _no_ in the background, and the thunk of something hitting flesh and an answering howl of pain.

It’s all noise after that, and a heavy weight sitting on his chest, a tongue licking at his chin.

“I don’t care who or what you are, that gets you all the dog jokes,” Stiles mutters, wiping saliva from his skin once the noise dies down. “Let me up, you big lug. You’re _heavy_.”

“And you’re alive.” The transition back is seamless; Derek crouches in front of him, buck naked and one hand held out to help Stiles up. “Which was the point, by the way, to keep you that way.”

Stiles can’t help the way his gaze drops, raking over Derek only to find him smirking when Stiles finally looks him in the eye.

“Werewolf,” Derek points out. “We don’t care about nudity. I thought you knew all the lore?” He reaches back, taking a bathrobe from where Isaac has brought it over. He shrugs into it, tying it loosely.

“Until recently, I thought this _lore_ was something that a bunch of producers and my mother made up,” Stiles says dryly. “And when I’m doing _nude_ scenes for the show, I’m not actually naked. Forgive me for taking some time to catch up here.”

“Peter’s going to be fine,” Isaac says. “He took a wolfsbane arrow to the shoulder, and another to the thigh, but nothing critical was hit. Once he’s bound, Talia will heal him and start bringing him back to human. She’ll hold a council with the hunters, and Malia needs to stay for that, but we’re not necessary.”

“Allison’s a good shot.” Scott looks almost as proud as if he’d shot the arrows himself. “You should meet her.”

“How do you know the hunter?” Isaac takes a step back, looks warily between Scott and where Allison stands with Kira, watching the others.

“We met at the sporting goods store. And the airport.” Scott shrugs. “Fate, Isaac. It’s all fate, and who am I to argue with destiny?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” Isaac looks dubious, but lets Scott tug him away anyway, crossing paths with the uniformed officer approaching.

“Hello,” the officer greets Stiles with his name, and he’s struck by familiarity again, a buzzing in his gut that makes his knees weak and uncomfortable. 

Stiles reaches out to grab the offered hand, clinging to Derek to stay upright as he really _looks_ at the officer. _Looks_ at him and sees the eyes, the shape of his face, tries to imagine what he might have looked like fifteen years ago and matching it up to the few photographs he has.

“Dad.” His voice is barely a whisper, lost as he’s tugged into a warm hug.

It’s been years since he’s seen his father, long enough that he was lost to memory. Long enough that Stiles doesn’t remember where he lived before his mom took him to Los Angeles, before she broke off all contact with his father. Long enough that he can forgive him for things he can’t even remember, things he did that made his mother leave.

He only knows from overhearing quiet conversations between Melissa and his mom about their ex-husbands, about violent things, which were how Claudia and Melissa bonded and became fast friends in their recovery.

His father nudges him back, holds him by the shoulders and looks at him. “Didn’t want to contact you while your mom was alive,” he says hoarsely. “She was clear that I should stay away, even after I got sober, got cleaned up. I let her know I made Sheriff, and she said that was nice, stay away. She couldn’t forgive me, and I don’t blame her. Kept her car, though, because I was sentimental. I’m sorry about what happened.”

 _About what happened_. Stiles’s gaze dropped. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry she died, too.” It takes his brain a moment to catch up with what’s been said, to parse who this is and what _car_ means. “Wait, that’s _your_ Jeep I’ve been driving.”

“Belongs to you as much as me,” the sheriff says. “Erica and Boyd know that. Erica called before handing it out as a loaner.”

“You weren’t going to say anything to me,” Stiles says quietly. “You were going to let me pass through town and just let me walk out of here.”

“I might’ve,” the sheriff admits. “Then you got caught up in what makes Beacon Hills what it is.”

“He’s been a part of it all along,” Derek says, his arms crossed. There’s a glower in his expression, thick eyebrows furrowed and irritable. “Just because Claudia took him away doesn’t change what he is and who he is. And with Scott—”

“Son, if Stiles—” he seems to hesitate slightly over the name, “—if he’s anything like his mom, he’s going to be stubborn as hell, and the only one who’ll make decisions about his life is him. He’s got a life back in LA, and he’s got his show. You know that as well as I do.”

Stiles looks down, sees the big paw prints on the shirt and the tiny holes from Derek’s claws. The show. The shirt. The fact that Derek knows his father and maybe remembers his mother, and he watches the show. “Um. I think I ruined your shirt.” He’s stuck on it, because it was _important_ to Derek.

The sheriff snorts loudly, and Derek’s expression eases. “It’s just a shirt,” Derek mutters. 

“But you’ve had it since the beginning. I’ll get you another.” Stiles cocks his head, mentally measures the incredible breadth of Derek’s chest. “One that fits. Because not only do we have the details wrong on what an alpha werewolf actually looks like, there is absolutely no way I could manage to live up to reality.”

Derek ducks his head, scrubs a hand across the back of his head. “You do fine, Stiles. Trust me.”

“He watches you every week when the show is on,” Cora yells out from across the lawn. “And every marathon. And when he gets bored, he starts up his own marathon from the DVDs. Because he has them all.”

“Shut up, Cora,” Derek mutters, and she cackles even though there’s no way she should have heard him. Obviously the show has been downplaying just how good werewolf hearing _really_ is.

“Should I tell him how much you love the shirtless montages in the DVD extras?” she calls back, and Derek turns to look at her, baring his teeth and growling loud enough that it shakes the air around Stiles.

“We are going to go into the house,” Derek says plainly. “Mom’s got food, and we can all eat before we head out again. You’ve got a hotel room to get back to, that you didn’t _stay in_.”

“Scott didn’t want Isaac to get in trouble from these nonexistent monsters,” Stiles says with a small shrug, as if he hadn’t instigated everything. “And you can’t blame a guy for being curious. Especially when I knew I was only getting part of the story.” He considers Derek, tries to piece together all the parts of the puzzle. “I think maybe it’s time you and I sit down and I get the whole story. Because yeah, I have a life to get back to. But apparently I’ve got family here in Beacon Hills, and I don’t think Scott’s going to do well cooped up in the city now. He’ll need a pack, right? So we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” He lays it out there that he knows about Scott, that he _gets_ this in some small way, wondering what the reaction will be.

Derek doesn’t say anything, just grabs Stiles’s hand and tugs him towards the house in the distance, the sheriff following behind. The creature is gone, while Cora, Erica, and Boyd remain behind, cleaning something up. Isaac, Scott, and Allison are still talking, the bow held out between them all as Allison shows it off. Stiles can’t see Kira or any of the others, and he hopes that nothing has happened to the petite hunter. On the other hand, Kira didn’t seem to be _against_ werewolves so much as against _killer_ creatures. So hopefully it’ll all work out.

Right now Stiles has to think about himself, and how much he needs to learn.

#

When werewolves eat, they _eat_. Stiles watches in awe as they put away dozens of hamburgers and several packages of hotdogs, along with a mountain of rolls, potato salad, and various forms of vegetables both cooked and uncooked. Stiles contents himself with a single burger and two dogs, and a small plate of salad while he tries to stay out of the way of the people who seem to need a quick path back to the buffet table.

Including Scott.

Stiles is still wrestling with that concept, watching the way Scott talks to both Isaac and Allison, alternating between looking at Isaac’s claws and Allison’s bow. He can’t think how it will work out, but so far no one’s killed anyone, so he figures that has to be a win.

Maybe in real life things can have happy endings, unlike on his show.

Derek nudges in next to him on the love seat, offering a plate with two brownies, three cookies, and a miniature pie.

Stiles takes the pie and bites into it, the strawberry juice running down his chin. “Does your mother spend the entire day cooking just to feed all of you?”

“We’ve been expending a lot of energy shifting; we eat a lot on normal days, but not _this_ much,” Derek admits. He gestures with the brownie in his hand. “You’ve um, got something right there.”

Stiles can feel the drip and dashes at it with his hand, licking the sweet syrup from his fingers after. “Whoever did it, and however this was made, my compliments to the cook.” He glances over, sees Derek staring at him. “What, did I miss a spot?”

“Mm-hm.” Derek moves slowly, setting the brownie back on the plate, and putting the plate aside. He touches the side of Stiles’s face, and Stiles has a feeling that if he wants to move, he should move _right now_.

Honestly, he doesn’t want to move.

Lips brush his carefully, a tongue darting out to lick along his lip, and Stiles groans. He doesn’t know what to do with the remains of the pie he still holds in one hand, but he can set the other on Derek’s knee, balancing himself as he leans into the kiss, seeks more pressure and more intent.

Derek tastes of chocolate and a faint hint of beer somewhere in the background, which clashes with the sweet strawberry and rhubarb from the pie. Stiles makes a face as he withdraws and Derek’s expression shutters.

“Sorry, I—”

Stiles cuts him off with a finger to his lips. “No apologies. Kiss was awesome, eleven out of ten, would love to do it again when the tastes don’t clash so much. Strawberries and dark beer are a terrible combination, and adding in rhubarb just makes the whole mess worse.”

Derek’s expression melts from gruff to a cautious smile that’s completely at odds with either of their prior encounters. Which only serves to remind Stiles of just how good it was dancing with Derek when he couldn’t even _see_ him, so what would it be like if he knew who he was with? 

So not the place for these thoughts right now.

“So, are you going to tell me the whole story, or do I have to stick around longer if I want to find out?” Stiles tries to shift the subject away, since he is still very definitely curious how his show seems to have come to life right in front of his eyes.

“We’re werewolves,” Derek says, completely deadpan even when Stiles nudges him. His expression goes serious, and he reaches across to take Stiles’s hand. “What if I said you do have to stick around to learn more?”

“I might be persuaded to come back,” Stiles teases, drawing the words out. “If there’s a good reason.”

Derek looks over at Scott, then back to Stiles.

“I was flirting.”

Derek smirks. “I know. But trust me, you have as much reason to come back as he does, and I am _not_ just talking about Isaac and Allison, or me.”

That… implies a mystery. Which means a mystery, the supernatural, and a hot guy who seems into the idea of Stiles kissing him. 

“The kissing, however, is included?”

“And more, eventually.” Derek rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “The show has one thing very wrong. Werewolves don’t jump into relationships. Or if they do, there’s a reason.”

“According to the writers, Ellie is Dylan’s mate.” Stiles says the words, a bit curious whether that part is real as well. “Scott’s a big believer in fate. He actually saw Allison for the first time in an airport, and said he was going to marry her, so finding her again today…”

“And Isaac.”

“Apparently Scott’s fate has opened its arms to more than one,” Stiles says dryly. “I just hope it works out for him.” He realizes that Derek didn’t answer his question, but then, he didn’t ask it as a question either. He’s busy putting two and two together and coming up with a big number four in day-glo paint that would worry him if it didn’t feel… okay. More okay than he’s felt since his mother died.

“We’ll be back,” Stiles says, looking from Scott back to Derek. He finishes the last of his pie, licking his fingers carefully, one eye on the way Derek’s skin is slightly flushed, his focus entirely on Stiles. When he’s done, Stiles offers his hand to Derek. “Give me a tour of the place?”

“This isn’t where I live,” Derek says.

“I’ve already woken up in your bed, alone, without any other benefits,” Stiles reminds him. “All I’m saying is _let’s walk_.”

Derek takes his hand and tugs so that Stiles has to come to his feet when Derek does. “Fine,” Derek says quietly, and brushes his lips against Stiles’s again. “Strawberry,” he says, as if it explains everything. “Let’s walk. And maybe we can talk about a few things. Whet your appetite so you’ve got more to look forward to when you return.”

“Walk. Talk. Make out.” Stiles grins. “I’m game for all of it. Let’s go.”

#

“So it’s all real,” Lydia says, lightly pinching the bridge of her nose. “Stiles…”

“I’m not joking. Derek, tell her I’m not joking.” Stiles turns the phone so the camera points at where Derek sprawls on the other end of the couch in his loft, their legs entangled in the space between. “Change or something.”

Derek holds up one hand, middle finger extended and with full claw.

“Eloquent and rude,” Stiles says, turning the phone back to focus on himself. He grins at the look on Lydia’s face. “See? And I was born here, mom knew all of this, and she was part of the development team for the show.”

“Along with Marin Morell and Julia Baccari,” Lydia tells him. At his surprised look, she purses her lips. “Did you think I wouldn’t actually look into it? Once you brought it up, I had to know.”

“I remember Morell,” Derek muses. “She was the guidance counselor at the high school a long time ago, and she left abruptly when I was about eight years old. Never knew where she ended up.”

“She uses another name now, and Julia Baccari uses Jennifer Blake for her screen credits.”

“Oh, _her_.” Stiles remembers her and a brief guest stint on season two as Ellie’s dead mother. “She is creepy as fuck.” Derek’s hand on his calf is reassuring, and Stiles sinks into it with a low sigh.

“Is there something else I should know?” Lydia asks, one eyebrow arched, and Stiles knows she has his number. He’s just not ready to talk about it yet, not as new as this is. Relationships haven’t always been his strength in the real world.

“I’m taking a few more days off here, and Scott and I will fly back in time to be on set early,” Stiles promises. “Scott… needs to spend some time figuring a few things out, plus he has this _thing_ going with Allison and Isaac both. He’s happy, which makes me happy, and besides, I’m trying to get to know my dad again. He’s not the same guy my mom ran away from."

“That’s a good thing, Stiles.” There’s an edge of _are you safe_ in her words, and he nods to say that he is.

“It’s a very good thing. He’s been dry for more than a decade, and yes, he’s involved with the supernatural weirdness here in Beacon Hills, but hey, I’ve found a great way to research for my role. I’ll be the most realistic werewolf on television,” Stiles declares.

“You already were, even though they worked in plenty of inconsistencies.” Derek leans back, stretching far enough that his shirt rides up, exposing just enough skin that it attracts Stiles’s attention and won’t let him go. “There’s a reason we all liked the show.”

“Kira liked the show, too,” Stiles says.

“I think Kira likes werewolves more than she wants to admit.” Derek raises both eyebrows. “She and Malia have been talking. Kira plans to stay to deal with Peter, while Allison goes home and keeps the rest of her family from tracking him down.”

Lydia huffs a sigh. “Stiles, you have three days, then I want you on a plane and back on set. We can have the Maserati shipped when it’s ready, or have one of your new friends drive it out here. I’ll make reservations for us to fly to Beacon Hills in November.”

“In November? Us?”

“Thanksgiving,” she says, as if he’s being an idiot, and in her mind, he probably is. “It’s a time for family, and it happens to be the next break in your filming schedule. You can manage to be there for a week, film your guest spot on _Abandoned_ over the next two weeks after that, then you’ll be back in Beacon Hills for Christmas and into the new year. Rumor has it you’ll need to make an appearance at an audition or three, if you want to break into movies, but we can schedule it around you setting up a residence there.”

“We?” Stiles prompts, because she ignored the question.

“We,” she says firmly. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you, and as your publicist, it behooves me to ensure that you don’t go completely off the rails into supernatural fuckery. Thus, I will be making my own move. It’s obvious Scott is far too distracted by his new status to pay enough attention to your activities. Besides, he needs to talk to his mother, and that will keep him very occupied, I suspect.”

Stiles tries to imagine the way the conversation between Melissa McCall and her son might go, and winces on Scott’s behalf. “You have a point. Fine. I leave the organization in your hands, and I’ll give you a raise from publicist to personal assistant. Get rid of your other contracts; you’re mine from now on.”

“I’m _mine_ ,” she says sharply. “I just happen to work for you. The tickets will be in your email shortly.” She pauses, expression gentling. “And Stiles? Congratulations. I haven’t seen you smile—truly smile—in so long. It seems Beacon Hills is good for you.”

“Almost seems like a guardian angel made sure I broke down here.” Stiles frowns. “Wait. Are angels real, too?”

“Not as far as I know.” Derek takes the phone out of Stiles’s hand and turns it toward himself. “Thank you, Lydia. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into any more trouble.” He sets the phone aside and gestures; Stiles goes to him willingly, curling up against him on the couch.

“You knew who I was in the club,” Stiles says, and Derek murmurs assent. “And you had a crush on me from the show.” It wasn’t part of what they talked about earlier, but Stiles is sure of it now. The t-shirt, the fact that he’s the fan Erica mentioned, it all adds up.

Derek hesitates, smiling into the skin of Stiles’s throat. “Something like that,” he admits, and Stiles remembers his earlier not-question about mates and Scott’s insistence on destiny. It’s possible that it’s all just a bit too big to deal with right now, and that Stiles is better off not thinking about the end game.

“I’ll get it all out of you eventually,” he says, letting his body go limp so that Derek has to hold him on the couch. “Right now, I just want to check: we’re both in this, right? Me being here, me getting involved in your supernatural world. This is a thing that we’re going to do, not just a crush, or a dance at a club. This is the kind of thing where I _felt_ that circle, which was actual _real_ mountain ash. It’s the kind of thing where you think it’s more than I do, and I’m trying to just figure it out, but at the same time, I can hold my hand here,” Stiles lets his palm hover over where Derek’s heart should be, “and I can feel your heart beat from a distance, through the tingle in my palm. It’s that kind of something, right?”

“It’s that kind of something,” Derek agrees. “So you’re going to stay?”

“For now, and I’ll be back, and between those two times, someone’s going to need to drive my Maserati to LA and you’re as good a candidate as anyone,” Stiles suggests, loving the way Derek nips at his neck in response.

“I like the Jeep better,” Derek murmurs, kissing his jaw, his lips, swallowing any chance Stiles might have to make a response.

It’s okay. Stiles likes the Jeep too, and he likes Derek, and he likes Beacon Hills, and he isn’t even bothered by the things that are still a mystery. He’s going to figure them all out.

But first he’s going to enjoy this. Whatever _this_ is.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to leave love for [the artist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel34/pseuds/Galadriel34), and if you want to find me, I'm [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Howl for your heart by tryslora](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4414943) by [Galadriel34](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel34/pseuds/Galadriel34)




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